


The Death of Paarthurnax

by FrickinAngel



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, Gen, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 17:37:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18743827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrickinAngel/pseuds/FrickinAngel
Summary: After discovering that the only person capable of killing Paarthurnax has done just that, the Greybeards assemble to figure out what to do about it.





	The Death of Paarthurnax

**Author's Note:**

> I have only killed Paarthurnax one time in fifteen entire games played. I just love him too much. The one time I did, I was heartbroken. I have always imagined what would happen to the Greybeards if their dear Paarthurnax died. This is what I came up with.

The Death of Paarthurnax

Chapter One

The Greybeards stood in the cold, their long beards and robes whipped this way and that by the harsh winds of High Hrothgar.  They hunched against the peppering snow thrown against their craggy faces. Arngeir pulled his hood tighter around his head as they huddled together, holding a guttering torch high in the darkness, as they stared in disbelief at the body of their fallen comrade and grandmaster, Paarthurnax.  

The ancient dragon lay lifeless, in a drift of snow, his intelligent, jewel green eyes already glazed in a scrim of frost, his scales scarred and battleworn, talons as long and sharp as ever. But no more would he rise to lead them. No more would he offer his wisdom to them. No, the old Dova had been senselessly slain.  

Arngeir looked up to the sky in despair, only to find the same unchanging beauty of the constellations, winking back at him, the nightly display of skyfire dancing in the heavens in every color. 

It had long been said that it was Paarthurnax’s father, Akatosh himself, who had placed the skyfire in the heavens upon the occasion of the joyous birth of his two children, Paarthurnax and Alduin, the World Eater. 

It seemed impossible that such beauty could still exist in a world without their dear Paathurnax.  How? Bitter tears stung Arngeir’s eyes just as he heard a choked sob from Borri on his right. He blindly reached out a steadying hand to his brother, who took it in his wrinkled and cold hand, squeezing back tightly.

“Why did... how could she—“ Wulfgar whispered, the wind doing everything to sweep the words away. 

Arngeir shook his head, dashing away hot tears with the rough sleeve of his free arm, his vision blurring. “He was ancient when Jurgen Windcaller brought our order together in the first era. Second only after the World Eater himself.”

“Yes Brother,” Einarth murmured, moving closer to them. He slipped a comforting arm around Arngeir’s thin shoulders. “But how could She betray us like this?”

“Dovahkiin!!!” Wulfgar shouted in anguish, staggering them all and bringing a great cascade of ice shards down from the nearby cliff. 

“Truly!” Borri snapped. “After all we—and He—“here, he gestured wildly at the fallen Paarthurnax. “After all we have done for the Dragonborn, she sides with those bloody Blades!”

“And for what?” Wulfgar shot back. “A few more quests she wouldn’t have access to unless she proved her loyalty to those washed up milk drinkers? Bah!” He spat, the wind carrying it away like everything else.

Like Paarthurnax’s precious life, thought Arngeir, looking back at their friend’s enormous body.  By tomorrow at this time, the old Dova would be nothing more than dry bones, as the Dovakiin finally absorbed the entirety of their friend’s ancient soul. 

“Brothers,” Einarth whispered, waiting until they all looked at him. “We must avenge him.” 

Wulfgar gasped, but they’d all been thinking it, Arngeir knew. The moment he’d seen Paarthurnax’s lifeless body, he’d known it spelled the demise of the Dragonborn. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides as a red haze of anger swelled inside him like a sickness. 

She hadn’t even bothered to come and break the sad news to them after killing him. When they had received no summons from Paarthurnax for three days, they had traveled to the top to see if something was amiss and found this sight. 

Arngeir shook his head, his vision blurring all over again. She had probably slunk back off the Throat of the World like a snake. He hoped she was wracked with guilt, but knew her better than that. 

Revenge... He nodded thoughtfully. Yes, she had served her one true purpose, he supposed. Saved the world from the wily Alduin, made a legend of herself, as ill-fated Dragonborns always did. 

They had enjoyed teaching her the Way of the Voice, of course. It had taken the Brothers decades to learn it themselves, not being possessed of the souls of dragons. But it had amazed them all to watch the sheer joy on Anya’s face, the deep concentration and focus as she absorbed each bit of knowledge, flawlessly learning every word in the Dragon language. 

There had come a time when Arngeir had thought of her like a daughter. If his life had been a different one, perhaps he might’ve had a daughter like this beautiful, wild creature they called Dovahkiin. 

But alas, it was never to be. For Arngeir, like his fellow Greybeards, had been promised to the study of the Way of the Voice long before birth. It was a lonely monastic life, lived on the top of a cruel and unforgiving mountain. They lived frugally, ate sparingly, and practiced the use of the voice and the study of Jurgen Windcaller’s treatises daily. There could be no beautiful daughters or handsome sons for any of the Greybeards. 

But they were respected and loved by the people of Skyrim. Was it enough, Arngeir wondered, not for the first time? 

Perhaps not without their dear leader, Paarthurnax. Now they only had each other and no guidance from the one who had known Windcaller himself. By the Nine Divines, Arngeir thought, he had even known Akatosh himself! 

And he was gone. Forever. 

Arngeir felt the hot tears spill onto his cheeks even as they were whisked away by the scouring winds of High Hrothgar. He didn’t bother to wipe them away this time. He felt sure he would be torn asunder by this. He stared mutely at a jagged, broken horn on Paarthurnax’s head. 

Either they accepted that their leader was gone and moved on in a peaceful way, or they went to war against the Dragonborn until either she was dead and their leader avenged or they, the Greybeards, had perished trying. 

Arngeir bowed his head in anguish, unable to even think about the end of Anya Dragonborn’s short but momentous life. It was just as horrific a possibility as the loss of Paarthurnax. Gods knew, he loved her almost as much as they had loved Paarthurnax. 

“We must avenge him, Arngeir,” Borri said softly. “We must.”

“Well, I suppose we could try summoning her,” Wulfgar suggested. They all loved her. “Discuss it with her...”

“But what good would that do?” Einarth yelled. “He’s still gone, by the Eight! She must be punished!” 

“The last time I checked, Brother Einarth,” Arngeir reminded him. “The Greybeards were not murderers.”

“Then we will summon her, and hear her side of the story and make our decision based on whatever she says,” Borri snarled. “Little as I want to see her face again!”

They all nodded and without words, moved to stand in a circle. They closed their eyes as one under the aurora borealis swirling overhead, the brilliant Skyrim stars burning like a billion tiny candles and shouted as they had when they had summoned her the first, fateful time, “DOVAHKIIN!”


End file.
